Must Get Out
by chilibreath
Summary: PSYCH! THIS is the real conclusion! Inspired by Maroon 5 and certain HouseCameron moments from S1 up to recent episodes. From the POV of Cameron's friend, how can she help Cameron get over House? Or can she?
1. Chapter 1

**Must Get Out**

_NOTES: It's a plot bunny that won't go away—ever since that fatal date in "Love Hurts". Events in the Tritter arc and my present "shipper ennui" have forced this plot bunny out of its holding pen and demand ficcage rights. From a first person POV—an original character. It may not seem it, but I do assure you its a House/Cameron fic!_

--

I pulled into the parking lot ten minutes ahead of the appointed time. Before killing the engine, I take out my orange notebook and re-read Al's directions to the meeting place.

For the gazillionth time, I wonder why she has to cut her heart out for this House person...

--

The meeting place is a small pizzeria with a forgettable name, taking up a minuscule fraction of mall space. In the farthest corner of this geometrically adorable restaurant—a hexagon, I believe—my good buddy Al is hiding behind a red-and-white checkered menu. Frankly, if you are the lone customer in a shabby-looking pizza parlor of uncertain health fame, hiding behind a brightly-colored menu becomes an exercise in futility.

As quietly as possible, I take the seat across from her and settled my butt on the worn leather upholstery. I place my purse on the extra chair next to me before picking up the spare menu left on the table.

"If you're hiding from the Mafia, a pizza parlor is _not_ the best place to hide," I whispered loudly. "Although, hiding in the last place they'd look—that's kind of shrewd. Good thinking!"

This made Al drop the menu she was holding—no startled reaction, like surprising a live wire. How disappointing—obviously, working a few years with this House guy has made Allison Cameron inured from my surprise tactic.

I hate him.

"I haven't received any horse heads on my bed yet," Al said in a voice tinged with sarcasm. "But it does have some appeal compared to—" here, she waves a hand aimlessly overhead, like she's sweeping unseen flies away from her head "—this."

"Does 'this' have a name, perchance?" I ask her, pretending to be dumb. Al scowls at me, and I am saved with the arrival of a freckly-faced waitress blessed—or hit—with an unholy shade of red ringlets. After our orders were taken, the waitress steps away and leaves me with a deflated-looking Al.

I sigh and contort my features into the best "what the hell?!" look I usually reserve for incredibly stubborn clients, relatives, and friends.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Al?" I moan. "Do you have a thing for pain? Guys who are in pain? Men who _are_ pain?" Her answer is to stick the heel of her hands into her eye sockets. Good God…

I gave up. "What's he done this time?"

Obviously, this is not the first time she has unburdened herself to me about House. After the first two or three sob-fests (one over the phone and the rest during scheduled outings like this), I developed a way of blocking out her voice whenever she starts mentioning him and his atrocious behavior.

I'm not that heartless; Al had to stop me from committing outright murder after her HIV scare a year ago. When she told me about the stunt he pulled to get a swab of her spit, I told her to take revenge by swapping his pain meds with laxatives.

It would have worked, if it weren't for her pesky conscience.

"Girl," I said, cutting in her tirade—something about House testing her with a trick question and drinks—"You have to stop this."

"You think I don't want to?" Al whined.

I snort. "Really?"

"Really!"

The waitress arrives with our order—a medium-sized pepperoni pizza with lots of mozzarella. I scrutinized it carefully before asking Al, "Do you have to return to the hospital soon?"

"No—it's my day off today."

"Good." I turn to the pizza girl and announced, "My compliments to the chef if he can whip up some pasta to go along with this pie. We're going to be here for a while."

I finished giving Miss Red the additional order and turned to my purse, which is big enough to be a dog carrier—for an English bulldog. After excavating it, I found my trusty orange notebook and leafed through it until I found a blank page.

"So, you wanna stop mooning over House?" I challenged her.

Al looks at me in the eye and nods. She wrings a cloth napkin in her hands so tight, I was afraid she would draw blood.

Good.

"Okay—I believe I might have the solution for you," I said. I hand over my notebook and pen to her and explained, "First, I want you to write in here the humiliating things House said or did to you. Don't hold anything back—just _write_!"

"Even the—"

"Everything!"

I hear a squeak somewhere behind me and a tinkle of glass. I turn my head and apologized loudly.

Al hesitated at first—I thought she might not go through with this at first. However, after I ate my third slice of pizza, she filled up about ten pages—back-to-back. Her fettuccine alfredo was cold (I sentenced mine to digestion as soon as the plate was set before me) by the time she filled the 20-something-eth page.

"Shit," I whispered, chugging my iced tea down like a man.

"I'm surprised myself," Al said in awe. "I feel a bit better!"

I smile. The moment she sees it, Al's good mood drops fast. She knows me that well—thank goodness House didn't get rid of _that_.

"Good," I said. "Now, I want you to rip those pages out of my notebook and put them where you can read them quick and easy."

Her eyes almost pop out of their sockets as she surveys the scribbling she wrought within the pages of my poor notebook. Somewhere in those aquamarine depths, I could see a glimmer of understanding.

"Quick and easy for you to whip out and read whenever you start feeling sorry for that lug," I add. "But you have to make sure only _you_ get to read them, so those pages have to be _with you at all times_."

Al paused in the process of ripping the pages off my notebook to give me a weird look. I look at the amount of unfettered pages piling up beside my desecrated notebook and blink.

"Okay—just get three or four pages at random and stuff them in your wallet."

Al looks at me with an uncomfortable look on her face. "I dunno…"

"Look, you said you wanted my help, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this is me helping you!" I slap my hand on the pile of notepaper, making the plates on our table jump. "Listen: you are too good for this son of a bitch. You shouldn't become his doormat _just because_ you feel sorry for him. You're a doctor, not his secretary—stop giving him coffee unless you're planning on slipping him some laxative. Let him sort his own mail for once! If he whines, tell him it's a good distraction from the pain. If he's asking you what you're doing in the lab, give _him_ the crazy wisecracks for once, like, like—jello shots and an orgy!"

Al giggled like crazy in between mouthfuls of pasta—a good sign. I gave her a critical eye and continued, "Damn, Al, what happened to the rest of you? Doesn't he let you eat?"

--

An hour and a half later, Al and I parted ways near the entrance to the mall.

"Thanks, Joy," Al whispered into my ear as we hugged the hell out of each other.

"No problem, kiddo," I whispered back. After untangling from each other, I added, "I want some progress reports from you, okay? I'll be in San Francisco next week attending a cousin's wedding—Mom won't be able to make it, and someone's gotta represent the family."

"Yeah—family honor and all that," Al shot back, grinning at me.

"Good luck."

* * *

_Continue it? Well, that will depend on you clicking that review button below this..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Must Get Out 2**

DISCLAIMER: I'm working it out with some lawyers—they still can't help me own House. They also told me to keep dreaming (eye roll).  
NOTE: Joy and Luz are common names for women from the Philippines.

--

I left for San Francisco a week after meeting Al at the hexagonal pizzeria. As for Al, she lost no time in implementing "The Plan".

Unlike my sister Luz, who sends me up-to-the-minute updates (literally) that overwhelms my inbox, Al gives me details in bulk. At the end of my sixth day in San Francisco—right after the wedding—I open my e-mail and found two messages from her that ate up 1.6 _gigabytes_ out of my available e-mail space. I still have 8.2 GB for other updates, thank God.

I have to remember to send Mom a box of Mrs. See's excellent chocolates—for intimidating me into attend that speed reading class all those years ago. The combined length of Al's e-mails is equivalent to an eighth of _The Da Vinci Code_.

The first e-mail informed me of how Al managed to use that "jello shots and an orgy" crack on her sadistic boss—except that she substituted "wild sex" for "orgy", but who cares?—after making her team work insidious overtime hours. Made my heart sing when she added that she didn't have to look into her "notes" when she let that rip—but then the cretin ruins the mood by ordering them to continue while he goes out for a nap.

_Coño!_

The second e-mail had me snorting iced tea out of my nostrils:

…_I can't believe I said that—"I'm hitting that"—and right in front of FOREMAN! When Chase told me that Foreman was the one who was dating the new nurse, I wanted to DIE!!!!! I blame you, you feminist plastic surgeon!_

I swipe some tissues from the bathroom and cleaned up my laptop. After making sure that no lasting damage will ever come from christening it, I grab my cellphone and dial Al's number, hoping that she's not working with some sensitive equipment.

Or standing next to her boss.

"Cameron."

"For the record, I am not a plastic surgeon—I specialize in reconstructive surgery," I announced in a whiny voice. I'm not known for my hellos.

"Same difference," Al replied mockingly.

"Secondly—when I started praying that you'd find someone to help you get over Doctor Killjoy, I didn't expect you to pull an Anne Heche!" I tease.

"Ha, ha, ha, funny gal," Al growled.

My ears pick something up.

"You're crunching ice?"

"Sort of—got into a little accident with a patient," she mutters.

I jump out of my chair. "A patient attacked you? Will a lawsuit come up? Did they disfigure you?"

"No—I slipped him a narcotic to keep him from leaving the hospital," Al answers effortlessly.

"So, the patient woke up and let you have it?" I asked, scandalized. I think I created a monster; I begin to mentally draft a statement absolving me of this change in Allison Cameron, MD.

"Better—he went through a sheet of glass and took me with him after I grabbed his collar."

"Well, he avenged himself without realizing it. Is the patient big?"

"Huge—more than 600 pounds."

"Hot shit! If you were standing on the other side, I might not be talking to you right now."

"I'll live," Al said wryly. "Still kind of sore, and I'm glad you called 'cause I was about to give you an update."

"I am renowned for my excellent timing—spill! Have you finally switched House's pills with Viagra and left him with a hard-on?"

"_No!_" She pauses to take a slurp of something—I assume that she's got a bendy straw to slurp with—before elaborating further, "I meant that I blew him off instead of sharing my feelings with him."

"Oh, baby girl, you've grown up!" I gushed. "You've learned how to deploy wisecracks AND not go all touchy-feely around him! I can now allow you to drink alcoholic beverages! You deserve it!"

"Your treat, Joy?" Al asked hopefully. I snort.

"Don't push me, kid," I answered dryly. "And you did all this without looking into your notes, huh? I'm impressed!"

"Yeah—I'm shocked at myself. I guess he rubbed off on me, or because he got arrested…"

"Say what?!"

"He got arrested—he left a rectal thermometer up a cop's butt and got caught with a bunch of pills in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket."

"A thermometer?! He left a—shit!" I couldn't contain it any longer and burst into a fit of giggles.

"Stupid, stupid thing to do," I could hear Al mutter into my ear.

"Is it still in there?" I ask innocently.

"I hope not," Al said, appalled. "Or we'd be in deeper shit."

"Can't have that," I said before something she mentioned made me go "Wait—your boss was arrested NOT for the ass assault, but for having excess pills?" I ask incredulously.

Al answered in the affirmative. "What, is the cop outraged that the thermometer wasn't up to his standards?"

I could practically see Al rolling her eyes before saying, "Wish it was that simple." I snicker.

"Tritter thinks House is an addict and a pusher," Al said, a mite outraged.

"That's insane—after everything you've told me about your boss, I don't think he's the sharing type."

"He's not—he's in pain."

"In so much pain that he'd stick a piece of glass up where the sun don't shine without knowing what the man does for a living first? And _why_ a rectal thermometer? Did the hospital run out of the ones you put into your mouth or ear?"

"I don't know—all I heard from the grapevine was that the cop arrived at the Clinic to have something checked out in his private area."

"Huh? He went to a _Free Clinic_ to have his groin checked out when he could've gone to a specialist? What a cheap bastard! I bet he forgot to pay your hospital for the use of the thermometer—the hospital should sue that cop."

"I knew you'd sympathize," Al said sarcastically.

"I'm all heart, you know—we doctors gotta stick together."

"Including House?"

"I have my limits, Al."

She suddenly started to chuckle. I raise an eyebrow and demanded, "What's so funny?"

In between chuckles, she managed to spit out, "You—and House. You two are _so _much alike! No wonder I like the both of you."

"He's from the Philippines?"

"Ha, another funny. No, you're both so cynical! If you meet each other, I don't know who'll win!" The chuckling mutated into full-blown laughter as I look at the phone in disgust.

"Are you high?" I inquire.

"The morphine wore off hours ago."

"Okay—I'll keep that in mind if or when you ever land in the ER and someone has to fill out forms."

"Thank you!"

"You're maudlin," I groaned. "I'll be back in Princeton soon. I expect you to be sober and healed by then, okay?"

"Sure thing, Joy. Nice talking to you."

"That's why I take care not to strain my vocal chords. Bye."

--

_Thoughts?_


	3. Chapter 3

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own House, MD.  
NOTES: Apparent tetchiness in this fic can be accounted to reading some things here and there. Information for the plastic surgery patients were inspired from www DOT awfulplasticsurgery DOT com._

--

The moment I disconnected from Al, my cellphone rang and vibrated in my hand. I look at the LCD and groan. Knowing the caller, I knew that I'll be asking Al for a rain check on that "meeting her soon" thing.

"Medina," I say, injecting as much weariness in the tone as possible. (Did I mention that I am lousy at hellos?)

Dr. Warrick Page's—Dr. War to his closest friends and colleagues—deep chuckle reverberated in my ear. "You miss me that much already? I'm touched—how's Luz and Dominic?"

"On their way to wedded bliss," I reply. "Surprising, knowing my sister's reaction to doing nothing—allergic."

"Fantastic," Dr. War remarked.

Something in the way he said that made me pace around my room and testily say, "Cut the pleasantries, Dr. War. The only time you dial this number is to give me work. The only difference in this phone call is that you're buttering me up. And the only reason you're buttering me up is—oh no…"

"Medina…"

"Mrs. Womack's new tits turned into stone _again_?! She's the Medusa of silicone implants! I _told you_ we should've given her the saline—"

"_It's not Mrs. Womack!_"

I pull the cellphone away from my ear before Dr. War's yelling provides irreversible ear damage. "Are you going to keep yelling at me?" I yell into the lower half of my phone.

I hear Dr. War's tinny yell of "NO!" come out of the receiver. I place the receiver on my un-yelled-at ear and ask carefully, "Is it interesting?"

"Oh yeah…" Dr. War drawls, and I'm all a-tingle with anticipation.

--

When I returned to Princeton, Dr. War immediately had me assist in the case of one Debbie M, victim of two cosmetic surgeries gone bad. Her "before" pictures showed her as a pleasant-looking girl with wide, thin lips and high cheekbones. The "after", unfortunately, left her with "lips like an anus" and "inability to smile due to presense of long, hideous, jagged, DEEP dimples" (not mine—I'm reading out of the form Debbie filled out while waiting her turn—the spelling is hers as well). The money she's getting from the lawsuit will be paying for the fixer-uppers (no pun intended).

"I just wanted to look like Angelina Jolie!" Debbie wailed while I examine her face. "Everything was fine—I was beautiful and popular until my lips shriveled up and the Miranda Trenches appeared on my face!"

"Marianas _Trench_," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth.

"WhatEVER!" she snarled.

I told her I was done. I walked out as fast and calm as I could to wash my hands as quick as possible before I come up with a witty retort that will have Dr. War's clinic coughing up the dough next. I took my sweet time washing up, forcing Dr. War to console Michael Jackson's new twin Debbie and explain to her what will be done to correct the mistakes. Personally, a guest slot with Dr. Phil or Maury, but Dr. War told me to "cool it".

If only this is the interesting case Dr. War told me about, but it isn't. We also got to meet "Mr. Man-droid" (a "straight" man who spent hundreds of thousands of dollars "reinventing" himself with just about every cosmetic surgery known in the medical world) who wants his pectoral implants to look more "manlier" instead of the miniature girly boobs they turned into and Mrs. Tremorton, a 40-something breast cancer survivor who wants new breasts now that she's in remission.

It is because of Mrs. Tremorton that I agreed to cut my San Francisco trip short. I enter the room and find the slender, pale woman holding her robe close to her body. It looks like she's cold, but her trembling lips and tense body language tells me otherwise.

I learned quickly from numerous survivors before Mrs. Tremorton how hard it is to feel comfortable in your skin after losing part of you that makes you a woman.

I smile and ask, "Have you decided on a cup size yet, Mrs. Tremorton?"

--

Things got pretty hectic at Dr. War's. I already informed Al about that, and she's cool with that because she of all people understands, being in a similar situation working for a big-shot jerk like Dr. House. I know—I'm working on making people look good while Al works on making people feel better—but that's what keeps our friendship solid. We're not, nor ever will be competitors in advancement because our specialties differ so much. Our work provides an endless supply of conversational fodder for our carefully scheduled girl-talk sessions, taking a break from our respective lives by taking note of the other woman's interesting patients.

It's a doctor thing, I guess.

Al and I managed to find a common free day a few days after the New Year. For reasons born of hormones or stress or both, we agreed to meet back at the hexagon-shaped pizza place. I'm ready to vote on the hormones when I entered the pizza place; I find Al at our old table, resting her head on the red and white paper placemat.

Uh oh.

Al raises her head carefully as I take my seat across from her, my jaw slowly dropping. Al looks like shit—deep circles around her eyes, more crucial weight loss, and parts of her neck that weren't successfully covered by long auburn hair had the telltale red imprints of large hands.

I place both my hands on the table and look at her in the eye. "I am going to rearrange his _face_—!"

"A patient attacked me," she cut in wearily. "And I'm quitting."

Well, that's one way to cut off a tirade.

"Why?" I ask. I pick up the menu and gestured for some service. Without looking at the menu, I order a plate of pasta for each of us, a large pitcher of beer, and a small pepperoni pizza. I didn't forget the disastrous mistake I made the last time we were here—medium-sized pizza AND a plate of pasta each. Yikes!

"What made you decide, Al?" I ask calmly after the waitress left. I prodded and poked Al's forearms until she swatted my hands away and forced herself to sit up and glare at me.

"He's killing himself, Joy," Al said softly. She didn't look at me when she said this, choosing to stare at her hands while she twiddled her thumbs. "I went to his place while he was suspended—did I e-mail you about that?"

"Yeah—a rehab deal for a dwarf girl's life—who's not a dwarf, but a regular kid with a tumor in her head." I shake my head and ask, "Did I get that right?"

Al nods. "What I didn't tell you was that House had been cutting himself for relief."

I stare at the beige wall behind Al's head, trying to recall something—"Causing pain to relieve pain?"

"Actually, cutting to release endorphins, which helps relieve the pain." Al raises a hand and begins to rub her left forearm. It takes me a moment to realize that Al is giving me additional information.

"Here you go, girls," the waitress pipes up (not Miss Red of the previous year), clearing a space in the middle of our table in order to place the pitcher of beer and mugs there. Al and I murmur our thanks as she leaves.

"So, you're leaving because he's finally convinced you of his insanity? What, he hasn't been insane before?"

Al glares at me. "He's in pain."

"Yet, he's a brilliant doctor, a fucking genius. He knows what gives people ticks. He's so damned smart, he's going to jail all by himself. Excellent, my hero!"

I'd say more, but the look in Al's eyes stops me. I inhale deeply and exhale slowly; as her friend, I have the right to find out once and for all if she can go through with this plan.

"Allison," I say in a low voice. "You can do _nothing_ for this man." I gesture at the marks around her neck. "How did he react to that?"

"He didn't say anything about it," Al mutters. "But he did have that trial; his mind is somewhere—"

"When your co-worker stole you article, did House do anything about it?"

"No; he told me that—"

"When he told you 'I love you', did he mean it?"

Al was weakening. "I refused to take the HI—"

"When his _ex-girlfriend_ came back, did he pay any special attention to you?"

"No—he was chasing Stacy Warner," she says in a subdued tone, which then brightened when she added, "He freaked out when Dr. Sebastian Charles was a patient at the hospital."

_Crap_. "Why'd he freak out, Allison?" I ask.

Al shrugged. "I don't know—I was trying to convince Dr. Charles to take some meds to relieve him of some discomfort as the TB progressed, and we were holding hands. Next thing I knew, House went ballistic inside his room."

I snort. "White man try steal Jane from Tarzan?" I said in my best Captain Caveman impersonation.

Al tries hard not to smile. "That's terrible and cute, Joy."

"I'll try to stick to my day job," I deadpanned.

The food finally arrived. I waited until the waitress was out of earshot before saying, "I'm going to regret this someday, but here's my advice: don't go through with the resignation, Al."

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Why?"

I sigh and bite into my pizza slice. "You've done it before, remember? How will it look if—and I do mean _if_—House manages to find you and convince you to stick around? It'll make you look like a flake."

Al raises her chin in the air and sucks in a strand of spaghetti. "I've thought of that," she says in a superior tone of voice. "I called Dr. Yule at Jefferson—he told me that there's another opening at their Immunology Department and told me that I can start as soon as I get everything settled here. I also sent my resume to other hospitals as back-ups—I can't fail."

I look at her skeptically—and with hope. "What about—?"

The triumphant chin went down a few notches, but the look was still there. "I looked at the resumes of the old applicants. I called half of them; half are already hired somewhere or weren't interested. The other half is interested and asked me when they could start. No way would Cuddy say no to my resignation now."

I'm still dubious; it's apparently on my face when Al added, with finality, "I've already hugged him goodbye, and he doesn't like it. No way is he going to convince me to come back."

--

It's been three weeks since Al made that momentous decision. We planned R-day carefully: obtain leave of absence from Big Boss Cuddy in order to go to interview at Jefferson. Hand over letter of resignation after a _successful_ interview with Dr. Yule. Kiss asshole boss goodbye. Find another place for girl talk meetings.

I feel so proud of Al—she's finally getting away from the source of her heartache. If there's anything I can say about House, it's that he's put her through so much shit and fire, she's ready for whatever life throws at her the moment she hightails it out of that hospital.

Norah, the receptionist at Dr. War's clinic, looks up smiling as I enter.

"Finally got that boyfriend, huh, Ligaya?" she teased. She's the only one aside from my mother and grandmother who ever calls me by my birth name—and pronounces it correctly.

I grin at her and reply, "Not yet. It just feels so _good_ helping people out, it's finally pierced into my skull." I reached out for the files she handed to me. "New patients today, Miss Norah?"

"Just one, Ligaya," Norah said in a motherly-hen voice. "He's filling out the forms as we speak. I let him in the examining room already, poor thing. His leg is hurting him so badly."

"Hurting—leg?" I whisper.

Then I shake my head—_no way, impossible!_—but I had to know. I speed-walked to the examining, praying quickly that Dr. War wasn't in yet and that it wasn't who I think it is. There are loads of people with hurting legs—hurting after an accident, hurting in different places in the leg, taking something other than Vicodin for the pain…

I open the door and look inside.

--

_Is it House? For real? Find out soon!_

_P.S. - If I'm hurt, who'll continue this fic?!?_


	4. Chapter 4 pt 1

_I do not own House, MD. Joy is my character, however._  
NOTES: House is—well, the Tritter fiasco is still fresh. That's all I have to say. I've also taken the liberty of fudging with future episodes here: I borrowed a spoiler for/after the upcoming episode "One Day, One Room"

--

After all the times Al came to me to dump her House-woes, I can confidently say that I am able to identify the man in a line-up.

The man sitting on the exam room table is _not _Dr. House. The patient is around thirty years old with dirty blond hair. His crutches are leaning on one side of the table; half his ass is parked on the wine-colored leather—the half that has a leg wrapped tight in bandages. He looks up at me with a partially healed, banged-up face and a badly crooked nose. "I thought Dr. Page was a man?" he says in a Californian surfer dude's voice.

I exhale in relief and smile widely at the man to confuse him further.

--

After examining and giving Mr. DeMartino a schedule for a nose job and reconstruction on his left cheekbone, my cellphone rang. A quick look at the LCD shows me that Al is calling.

I answer it: "Girlfriend, I'll be there by 12:30—"

"There's a problem," Al mutters in a low voice.

My eyes widen.

"Hold that thought, Al!" I hiss. I race out of the examining room and grabbed a passing nurse by the elbow. "Sorry," I tell her in an "oh-jeez-I'm-in-pain" voice, holding my middle to make it convincing, "but could you lead the next patient in the examining room and tell them to wait? I've got a little girl-problem going on, and I need the bathroom _BAAAAAAAAAAD_…"

The girl's eyes blue-green eyes widen behind thick glasses. "Oh, okay!" she says in an anxious stage whisper. "Do you need something for it? I've got some Midol in my purse!"

I give her a small, grateful smile—or a wince, I can't really say—and say, "That's swell—I'll be in the little girls' room. I know me—it'll go away after I do my—uh—yogi thing. Helps with the pain! Thanks!"

I race into the restroom and lock the door behind me.

"Okay, talk to me!" I gasp into the phone.

Fruitlessly repressed giggles greeted this. "Have you done your YOGI thing yet?"

I roll my eyes and pace inside the restroom. "Yogi, yoga—whatever! Spill, woman—what happened?!"

"I can't get away," she mutters in the same low voice. In the background, I could hear car engines roaring softly. "He just popped into the conference room, we did the differentials, and told me and Chase to check out the patient's apartment. He didn't give me a chance to tell him about my resignation _or_ my day off!"

"Shit," I hiss. Al had informed me two years back that her boss has a penchant for coming in late. "Well, can you ask Dr. Cuddy to reschedule a day off after Dr. _Louse_ stole it away from you?"

"I'll try," she says. There's no shred of hope in those words. I clap a hand over my forehead; over the car engines in the background, I hear a deep, Australian-accented voice say something. "I have to go—call you later, Joy."

"Yeah."

I lean against the wall of the restroom and proceed to utter a list of profanities in Tagalog.

--

I left the restroom, feeling a bit better. The nurse I accosted in the hallway approaches me and hands me a plastic cup with some Midol tablets in it.

"Here you go, Dr. Medina," she says in an overplayed stage whisper that I'm sure was heard over in the waiting room.

"Uh—thanks," I tell her. "I'll save these when the pain comes back."

"Okay. Oh, there's a patient for you in the examining room—he's got a weird request: he wants a thigh implant."

"_Thigh implant?_" I tried not to snort as I took the file from the nurse and opened it. "That's a new one for this clinic." I scan the filled-out form and found the reason: _hacked off_. How glib for something so grisly.

"Ew," the nurse whispered as she peeked at the open file.

"Yum-_mee_," I retort, walking towards the examining room. I open the door without looking up from the file and automatically say, "Hi, sorry I'm late. Dr. Page is working on a patient at the moment. I'm Dr. Medina, and I'll be—"

I look up at this point and went into shock.

"You!" I squeak.

The tall, stubbly-faced man carefully hops off the examining table and lands on his left leg. With a speed I would never had imagined in a person with a bum leg, he managed to yank me further in the middle of the room and close and lock the door before I could yell for help.

After making sure that no one will walk in the room unannounced, the "patient" turns around and stares at me with the most astonishing pair of deep-set blue eyes I've ever seen. I got my senses back when the patient said in a deep, mocking voice, "I'm not into charades, so why don't we stick to being true to ourselves, hmm? I'll be Dr. House, and you'll be the devious best friend of Cameron's who managed to convince her to attempt to resign—again."

I snort as he shuffles away from the door and hooks a stool with his cane, which he promptly sits on. "Okay—just to clarify: I'll be Al's well-meaning friend, while you'll be the insensitive dolt who mocks my friend's good-nature and the circumstances of her widowhood every chance he gets."

I didn't think those large blue eyes would get any wider, but they did. "Mmm—feisty!"

I just lift a brow. "So, you want a thigh implant or what? I've got people outside waiting to look better, you know. Ever heard of superficiality?"

He pretends to think about it, cocking his head to the side and rolling his eyes upward. "Would that include your ensemble for today?" he asks innocently, giving my outfit a cursory glance.

I look down—under my white coat, I'm wearing a white blouse, black slacks, and black Aerosoles. I look at his ensemble consisting of a black shirt with some kind of rock band insignia on it, jeans, and a pair of Converse All-Stars. Obviously, my attempt at sarcasm had back-fired.

I just ignore that and take a stool from the other side of the room. "Cut the flirting, Dr. House. You're not here for a new thigh, and the fact that you mentioned 'Cameron' and 'resign' means that you're in the know. I'd like to know just two things—one, why are you here and two, when are you going to leave?"

House places his cane in between spread knees and started to make it spin. "To answer your first question, I have to tell it in excruciating detail. When I walked into work, I was informed by my superior officer that I'll be one less little Indian today and one day in the future. So, I conveniently ignored that and sent Cameron and another Indian to scout the patient's place while I did some background investigation in her inbox."

If I had been drinking something, I would have sprayed it all over him. "You hacked into her e-mail?!" I hissed. (I still haven't forgotten that I'm at work.)

He shrugs. "I needed answers. Cameron isn't the type to go sneaking behind my back without _almost_ successfully giving me the slip. She can't keep her mouth shut around me, so I knew she had to have an accomplice, and after checking her inbox, I found out it was you. So, I did some researching of my own and snuck out to 'flirt' with you in the hopes that you can convince Cameron not to resign." House finished this with a look of smugness.

I tried to look detached during his diatribe. "Okay, so how about answering my other question?"

He looks at me in a strange way, reminding me of one of my grandmother's cronies when she's got an excellent set of tiles in mahjong. "I'll only leave if you can convince Cameron _not_ to resign."

That made me laugh a bit. "What makes you think I'll be able to do that? Because I'm her friend?"

With much exaggeration, House looks taken aback at this. "Wow, you're _good_! Excellent idea! So, you'll do it?"

I start to bite the lining behind my lower lip in an effort to not laugh. "Why won't you do it? I know this isn't the first time Al tried to resign from your department."

House looks a little uneasy—how interesting. "She might ask for a wedding this time around." He looks at me and gives me an annoyed look. "Oh, come on—don't tell me she didn't tell you how she got her job back _before_!"

I give him a look of pity with a touch of amusement. "She did—and on the day of the date you told her, point blank, why she was attracted to you, basing your assumptions from her personal history. Way to win her back, _Doc_."

I think I shocked him (key words: "I think"). The angular face in front of me became impassive—except for the eyes, because Dr. House was now looking down. Vulnerable while trying not to show vulnerability.

What is he hiding from me?

"She had to know," he says softly, "that nothing good can come from a relationship based on neediness. There's also the fact that things could get very awkward between us—you know, because I'm her boss and she works for me…"

_So what you did is chase after the ex who turned you into a cripple_. But I'm too nice to point that obvious fact out to him. Something Al mentioned a while back and the man's inability to look me in the eye made the cogs in my head start to whir and elicit the following instead:

"You surprise me, Dr. House."

That catches his attention and makes his eyes snap up to me.

I cross my arms and look closely at Dr. House—like a med student analyzing a surprise patient presented by her professor—but really, I'm preparing to play devil's advocate here. "Within a space of some five minutes, you have listed several reasons why you ought to be celebrating Al's resignation. In your line of work, you can't afford someone like her on your team…flighty, needy, can't keep her mouth shut—"

Dr. House leans forward, blue eyes trying to bore holes into mine. "_I_ need her on my team."

"Sure you do," I say in the most mocking tone I've got. "You need someone flighty, needy, can't keep her mouth shut." Then for effect, I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. "I dunno—the best you can do is let her go and be all those things at another hospital. Save your reputation and all that. You'll do better with another doctor who's not—"

"I don't need another doctor, I need—" His mouth clamps shut and shoots me a look that must have made babies cry. Me, I just shrug and take a cursory look at my watch, twiddled my thumbs, and then sigh dramatically. "Well, I'd love to stay and stare, but its lunch time and I have a free day ahead of me. If you really want that thigh implant, I suggest a consult with Dr. Page. I have his card with me here somewhere—"

"Your treat?" he asks hopefully. I give him a look before heading for the door, but my progress was cut short by a large hand on my wrist. Dr. House plants his cane firmly on the floor and stands up, looking down at me with a speculative stare. "Fine—my treat. But if the food's not good, we're going Dutch."

* * *

Sorry for the delay in updating--a Joy and House confrontation is a tricky thing to write. Part 4.2 coming soon--tomorrow at the latest. :) 


	5. Chapter 4 pt 2

I do not own House, MD. Joy is my character, however.  
NOTES: House is—well, the Tritter fiasco is still fresh. That's all I have to say. I've also taken the liberty of fudging with future episodes here.

--

There is a deli a few blocks away from the clinic, where I always take my lunch during workdays. That's where I take Dr. House for the continuation of our meeting.

Before we left the clinic, I loudly said to Norah, "I'll be back tomorrow, Miss N.—scheduled day off." Then I jab a thumb in Dr. House's direction, "We're going to continue discussing _sizes_. These men and their _insecurities_…"

A sharp nudge on my right calf rudely interrupted me. I trip a bit, but I caught myself in time and turn around to glare at my attacker. Dr. House didn't show any emotion, but his ears were getting red as he put on a leather jacket. Meanwhile, Norah tried very hard not to look at where she _thinks_ the "insecurity" was located.

After House pays the cashier, we get our food from the counter and I lead the way to a remote corner in the deli. Dr. House obviously doesn't need any help; despite the heavily laden tray, he's able to hold it in one hand. Quite a strong old fella there.

When he finally takes his place opposite mine, he takes a moment to scan the contents of my tray with those big blue eyes. "You were deprived as a child, weren't you?"

I look at him like he'd lost the rest of his marbles. "Not really, but I did forget breakfast." _And I never pass an opportunity when a meal is free_. Granted, a large club sandwich, one bag of chips, chicken salad and a large glass of iced tea does seem to be too much…

Before he took a bite of his pickle-less Reuben, Dr. House took a pill bottle out of his pocket and shook out a couple of white pills. He promptly popped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Spotting my look of surprise, he says, "It's to aid my digestion."

"Oh yeah," I say in mock understanding. "I totally understand—painful leg equals indigestion. I went to med school too, you know."

House sticks out his lower lip—I try hard not to giggle, because pouting makes him look kind of cute. I'm beginning to understand how Al could have fallen for this guy, and it's frightening me.

Between mouthfuls of Reuben, Dr. House asks, "So, are you going to convince _Al_ or not?"

I pretend to think about it as I chew on my mouthful of club sandwich—_slowly_. "I dunno—around the time Al announced her intention to resign from you, Dr. House, there were strangle marks around her neck and a note of commitment in her voice."

Dr. House suddenly found table-tapping with a fork to be an interesting endeavor. "The patient had a psychotic episode; he's not the first patient in our care who's had one of those…"

I butt in, "How about getting infected blood in her eyes? Does that happen often?"

He gets defensive—and kind of agitated. "She wasn't wearing protective goggles around him. Do you know the odds of getting infected by HIV like that?"

I look at him carefully. "Was that like the time Al found out her article was stolen by one of her co-workers?"

Blue eyes blink rapidly in confusion. "Yeah—the odds that someone can get HIV by coughing blood into their eyes and the odds that an ex-con would steal an idea for a medical article are so _related_…"

"Not that, funny guy," I snarl. Honestly, the times I try to make a point, it does not come out as planned. "You'd actually risk the lives of your fellows and their relationship with each other to find out what the outcome would be? Especially at the expense of their lives and the lives of the patients you're trying to save?" I violently stab at my chicken salad with my fork and place the unfortunate morsels in my mouth, but not before I added, "I don't know about you, but maybe that's the reason one of them has decided that all the shit her boss has been doling out at the expense of her self-esteem and her esteem for him just isn't worth it."

In the silence that follows, I take the opportunity to look up from my salad at my dining partner. It seems that I struck a nerve. Good.

The next words out of his mouth—unexpected.

"How'd you become friends with Cameron?" he asks curiously.

"When I was a little girl, I threw a silver dollar in a wishing well and asked for a friend of my very own," I answer in a sing-song voice. This made Dr. House smirk briefly before saying tersely, "Seriously."

I narrow my eyes. "Why do you want to know—so you can have more ammunition the next time Al tries to…?"

Dr. House holds up his hands—the left was holding a potato chip—in submission. "Call me a curious guy. How does someone like you get to be friends with someone like Cameron?"

Both my eyebrows must have vanished past my hairline, but I manage to get them back to where they're supposed to be. "What—you have something against a white girl being friends with an Asian girl?"

"No—though it would be nice to know that, too." He peers at me and waves half a Reuben in my direction. "Cameron always wears those pointy-toed high heels to work; you wear black socks and flat Aerosoles. Cameron always wears a different-colored, body-hugging blouse and vest to work; you are wearing a loose-fitting blouse. Cameron is everybody's friend; you are too snippy to be Cameron's friend..."

I cut in: "Cameron has excellent bedside manners; I bet your bedside manners are about as pleasant as bleach on a Technicolor dream coat. _What is your point?_"

Dr. House shrugs, chewing a mouthful and swallowing it before replying, "How can polar opposites become friends? You work for a guy who inflates women's funbags for a living, and yet here you are dressed up like an Amish girl with the diplomacy of Rosie O'Donnell."

My eyebrows did their disappearing act again. What he said—why does that sound familiar? Oh, yeah—"Well, for a Department Head, you sure know how to _dress_ and _act _the part. If the point of this discussion is going to point out the obvious, I don't see why…"

"My point is that you are ultimately responsible for turning Cameron into _Al_! You've ruined her! Now she's running away because you turned her against me! Jell-O shots and wild sex—that didn't come from her! You _brainwashed_ her."

The man is freaking out, which is freaking me and several patrons out inside the deli.

"_I_ brainwashed her?!" I whisper harshly. "I'm not the Einstein who takes potshots at her reasons for marrying a dying man. I don't give her constant and humiliating reminders about her confessing her feelings. I have never made fun of her dedication to her job. So far, I haven't done anything to give her something to doubt about. All I did was to be her friend, and as her friend, I actually told her to move on and _reconsider_ resigning from you. Between the two of us, it's kind of obvious who's doing _her_ job."

I take out my aggravation on the remnants of my club sandwich while waiting for Dr. House to digest what I said. Once the sandwich was gone—it didn't take too long—I continue, "If anyone's going to point fingers, it should be me. I know Al longer than you have, buddy. She changed _a lot_ since she started to work for you, but most of it was _not_ for the better. In fact, _you_ did the brainwashing! If anyone has to convince her to drop the resignation, its you—not me, _you_."

"Don't you think I already know that?"

That shocked the hell out of me. "What?"

Dr. House gives me a sardonic smile. "Of course I'm going to do the convincing—she works for me, not you. What do you take me for?" He nicks some chips out of my bag, but I didn't bother to stop him—well, I couldn't. "I needed some 'ammo', and you just handed me the entire armory."

He picks up his cane, which had been hooked on the far corner of his side of the table, and proceeds to stand up. "When I'm not too swamped with clinic duties, I'll schedule an appointment to check out the thigh implant sizes you've got. I think I'll be ready and superficial in five months, how's that sound?"

With that parting shot, Dr. House limps gracefully out of the deli. I am left to stare at his lean departing form and wonder what the hell I just said to make him so damn smug.

I had to warn Al STAT.

--

_Sorry for the delay._


	6. Chapter 5

**Must Get Out 5**

WARNINGS: For those who haven't watched _Needle in a Haystack_, spoilers. For those who have watched it, a slight deviation on the turn of events than shown in the episode.  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own House, MD. Joy is my character, however.  
NOTES: House is—well, the Tritter fiasco is still fresh. That's all I have to say. And after seeing _Needle in a Haystack_, I have opted to stick with the open-air parking lot. I also realized that I had Joy drinking iced tea during WINTER! (Oops)

--

As I wait for Al to answer her phone, I worried inside the ladies' room of Maximo's Deli. Would I be able to contact her on time?

"Cameron."

Thank goodness. I wasted no time in informing her of the seriousness of the situation.

"Your boss wants a thigh implant!" I squawk.

"_What?!_"

O––kay, so I wasted a few precious moments…

A rough voice from a neighboring stall stopped me from replying: "If the boss is interested, he can have one of mine—I've got PLENTY!"

"Not _interested_!" I mutter loudly. Then to Al, "You boss—Dr. House—he found out about your resignation from a higher-up. He sent you on a mission in order to get you out of the way and hack into you e-mail…"

"He did WHAT?!" Al hisses.

"…and search for some clues." I pause here to breathe in—carefully, because God knows what I'm inhaling in a public restroom—before adding rapidly: "If I wasn't freaking out right now, I'd say it was kinda romantic—in an American Psycho kind of way."

The pause at the other end of the line wasn't very reassuring—must be because I could hear her hyperventilating. I disrupted the disturbing breathing sounds: "He's going to try and convince you to pull out your resignation—or make fun of you for doing it again, _then _convince you to pull out your resignation."

A long-suffering sigh followed this. "Knowing him, he'll do the second one."

I rub the tip of my nose. Providing the appropriate background music, the potential thigh-donator of the other stall flushed the toilet.

"What now, Allison?" I ask cautiously. "Face the music, or regroup at the pizza parlor?"

She sighs. "I should be on leave right now," she says wearily. Then in a louder, embarrassed-sounding voice, "We're driving back from the apartment—bogus information, ugh! I'll tell you when I see you. Anyway, I'll just inform Cuddy that House didn't let me go according to schedule because of the new patient. I'll try to get another leave as soon as we cure this patient."

"Have you called Dr. Yule?" I ask. By this time, Al should've shaken hands with Dr. Yule as they began the interview. Then Al groaned, and I mentally junk the image of hand-shaking Dr. Yule (as played by Donald Trump—I have to watch something other than "The Apprentice") out of my mind. "Well, now what?"

"Hmm—you're on leave now, right? How about you pick me up here at the hospital?" Al asks.

That surprised me. "Why, and what happened to your car?"

"Nothing wrong; I just have this insidious plan…" Al says, devious-like (my English teacher is going to kill me).

I press my mobile phone closer to my face and listen with glee, which momentarily sizzled down to a derisive snort. "Oh, how _juvenile_," I declare in a scathing tone. "I _love_ it!"

What have I done to her I ask you? What?!?

--

After fifteen minutes of careful driving over icy roads, I arrive at the parking lot of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I maneuver around the snow-covered vehicles in search of a slot near the entrance to the hospital. Finding none, I had to settle for a vacant spot several meters away.

I thought I had completely flushed away the iced tea I had earlier before leaving the deli. The unfortunate fact is that there's still some more left in my puny bladder. Damn—I have to use the little girl's room inside the hospital, at risk of bumping into a crippled grouch. I kill the engine as I flip out my mobile phone.

"Cameron."

"Hey girl—I need to visit the ladies' room to powder my nose and pee."

Al groans. "Didn't you go before you got here?"

I roll my eyes—as if she'd appreciate it over the line, ha!—as I carefully extracted myself from the driver's side of the car. "Is it my fault if there's a need for a sequel?"

Al muttered something foul and inarticulate. "Fine—go past the lobby then turn left. You'll immediately see the signs. We'll rendezvous there instead."

"Alright-y then! Over and out!"

Al's original plan was that I meet her at the parking lot and drive out to her place to regroup and plan anew. While she waited, she's going to try to avoid Dr. House and call Yule to apologize and attempt to beg for another schedule. If that didn't work, we're going to try and cook up a new plan.

I locked up, adjusted my jacket to cover me up some more, and walked briskly across the parking lot for the entrance. When I got to the pedestrian part of the lot, my mind played back a portion of my diatribe at House:

"_All I did was to be her friend, and as her friend, I actually told her to move on and _reconsider_ resigning from you._"

_That_ made me stop walking.

The mind does have a damn lousy sense of timing, like when I've already given up on finding out what I said that made House so damn smug. It was the last thing I remembered before something threw me off-balance and knocked me out.

--

When I came to, the first thing that came floating to my foggy mind was a mish mash recollection of hearing an angry female voice and of feeling strong hands which transferred me on a stretcher. The second thing that registered was the voice of an overdramatic woman making some kind of cheesy plea to somebody. Accompanying this annoying monologue was some equally cheesy piano music playing softly in the background.

(Damn, that's a lot of adjectives. My English teacher will hunt me down for sure.)

Somewhere at my right, I could hear a crunching sound.

Crunching?

"Whozair?" I mumble. "Weh am I?"

A deep, mournful voice answered, "You have been a _bad_ little Amish girl. You have been sent to the third circle of hell, where you shall be forced to wear _pastels_ for all eternity! Muahahahahahahaaaa!!!"

How odd—the Angel of Death sounds like he's still munching on a mouthful of pig skin crackling…

Wait a minute.

I open my eyes, blink rapidly to get my vision cleared a bit, and turn to face the Angel of Death on my right.

"Dr. House!" I whisper hoarsely.

"Welcome to the system, sinister friend of Cameron's," he says in a normal voice. I lick my dry lips; those dry lips suddenly encounter the tip of a straw, and I tentatively sip some blessedly refreshing water. (If he poisoned it and there are such things as ghosts, I will _haunt_ him...)

Once I lubricated my mouth I tried to ask "Wha—?", but I didn't get to finish saying the word when I started to feel the pain—primarily on my right side and my head. "Jeez! What hap—what hit me? And how long was I out?" I demand hoarsely.

"House ran you over while he was on a wheelchair yesterday," someone else answers.

I gingerly raise my head up and see Al close the sliding door to my room. Huh, that's something: a glass-walled hospital room. Wonder what their psych ward is made of—if they have one—because I'd like to see the guy who ran me over with a wheelchair into one. I bet it's made of aluminum and bubble-wrapped solitary confinement rooms. That would be so _awesome_!

But I just say, "What are the injuries? And I want to call a lawyer."

Al winces. "You dislocated your right shoulder after you landed on it. You have a mild concussion on the right side of your head, a large bruise on the side of your left leg, and some minor cuts and bruises. The hospital—" Here, Al shoots a look of vexation at the culprit's direction. "—will shoulder all expenses. If you're going to call a lawyer, you can have him settle it all out with the hospital's lawyers. How's that?"

I give Al my most winning look of bewilderment. "And let the Evil Knievel of all Jackasses here get away _scot-free_?"

At that, Al smirks. "Don't worry—according to Dr. Cuddy, part of it is going to be taken out of his pay and he's going to repay _her_ by doing more hours at the Free Clinic downstairs."

Meanwhile, Dr. House goes juvenile beside me. I heard him mimic Al like this: "Mart o'mit ee'goin' oo me ekin ow o' ees _maaaaay_…"

Al gives Dr. House a smug look at this—must be some kind of inside joke. I look at Dr. House, who started to pout and make faces.

God, they are _so_ married!

That's it—I sigh and make the announcement I should have made the moment Al started to tattle on about big, mean ol' Dr. House.

"Al—I quit being your mentor."

Al looks at me like as though I told her that there was, indeed, a god (I'm a Catholic, and that statement doesn't bode well for me if Mom hears about it!).

Dr. House makes some kind of irritable noise. "Well, you're a lousy mentor anyway—"

I cut him off. "And you, sir, are a _brat_!"

Dr. House looks scandalized—drama-queen scandalized. I try hard not to laugh; feeling the pain helped. I gingerly adjust my position on the bed. Al went to my other side in order to press the button that automatically repositioned the head of the bed a few degrees upward.

"I am _so_ not a brat!" he pouts.

"You so _are_!" I huff irritably; at my new position, I discover that my chest and stomach have giant bread crumbs. I attribute those crumbs to Dr. House, who's holding a large Styrofoam glass from Subway.

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!" And I emphasize by sticking my tongue out at him. He reacts by poking me on my good arm.

"Ow!"

"Stop _it_!" Al yells.

"You heard the lady—stop it!" I issue the command to House in my most severe school-marm voice—and poke him somewhere on his upper torso. Hey, limited dexterity when the arm I'm using is hooked to an IV bag, people.

Al had enough. "House, stop torturing her and get back to the conference room; we have a new case! Joy, stop encouraging him; you'll rip out your stitches!"

"Aw, Mo-ooom!" House whined; he got a folder on his lap for that. I took this moment of inattentiveness to tip his Subway drink into him. It didn't work—drat! Confounded man has the reflexes of a cat. Thankfully, he didn't retaliate—something in that folder got his attention. Must be one interesting patient; the good doctor suddenly sprang up from his seat, grabbed his cane, and said, "Don't just stand there, Cameron—we have a mystery to solve!"

"I'll be right there," Al replies sardonically as Dr. House toddled out. The moment the man's sneakers disappeared around the corner, Al folds in. Her shoulders slump, and she rubs the bridge of her nose in vexation.

I look closely. "You're not going to resign, huh," I said.

Al shakes her head.

I start to get nauseated. "What happened?"

Al breathes in deeply, makes some wild gestures in the air, and finally looks me in the eye to say, "I have no idea."

I raise an eyebrow—the left one, since everything on my right is aching. "Care to enlighten, m'dear?"

Al looks at me with a twinkle in her eyes and winks. "No," she simply says. She takes advantage of my shock by brushing off the remaining crumbs on my person and blanket—and humming while she's at it.

I look suspiciously up at her—her cheeks are getting a little ruddy around the apples. "You—" I began. She looks down at me and gives me an innocent look that doesn't fool me, her best friend since med school, in the slightest.

My jaw went slack, and before I could interrogate her further, she left the room in a hurry.

"You temptress you!" I whisper softly and grin.

_Fin.

* * *

_

It is done! Thank you for supporting Joy, my OC! (bows) 


	7. Epilogue

_Psych! This is the real epilogue! You didn't think I was going to end this fic abruptly, now did you?_

_Okay---put down the tomatoes!!! Here it is!!!!!_

**Must Get Out – Epilogue

* * *

**

Mr. and Mrs. Medina raised their two daughters and two sons to look at life pragmatically, to learn from mistakes, to rise above tragedy—and always look at the funny side of things.

It is with one of these outlooks that made me ask myself one day: How many people get run over by wheelchairs? If there is a reliable statistic, sign me up. Suffice to say, I lived to tell another tale, yet all I got out of this accident was a scrip for one of those corrective glasses; the concussion screwed up my 20/20.

Here's what happened since I rose gracefully up from my unconscious state (never mind that one side of my face smelled like dried drool):

--

The people at my clinic stopped by to see me the day I woke up. I got boxes of Reese's chocolates (my favorite—I love these guys!) and good-natured ribbing from my fellow surgeons.

"Want me to fix up that damage, Dr. Medina?" Dr. War asks in a plainly insincere tone of voice. "Since you work at the clinic, I offer you a 40 percent discount and a free shot of Botox."

"Just gimme the chocolate, Dr. War," I muttered.

As for Al—even though I'm in her turf, I only see her during her lunch, when she does her rounds, and before she leaves for home. Unfortunately, Al has become very shrewd since we met up at that pizzeria—what kind of mushrooms did they put on their topping?!—and I was unable to interrogate her for four days since I woke up.

During lunch, she doesn't just bring her lunch with her, she brought her colleagues along. Drat—she knows I wouldn't be able to ask her incredibly personal questions in the presence of men. I was introduced to Dr. Eric Foreman—a black man sporting a nifty-looking goatee—and Dr. Robert Chase—a good-looking Australian with an unusual taste in ties. Now that I think about it, I believe it was Dr. Chase's voice I heard sometime ago over the phone—glad to know the voice matches the face. Wonder if he has a girlfriend?

The only good thing about these visits was that I got to witness Al in her element. The threesome discussed possible symptoms, environmental aspects, and even the questionable fidelity of the patient and his girlfriend over their packed lunches. Hey, I even got to share my own theory during their debate!

(I also found out that Dr. Chase is available. I got his number!)

Al does pop in every now and then during her rounds. Oddly enough, whenever she comes to see me, I'm zoning out on the pain medications. And I wonder who told my parents and nosy, nosy, _nosy_ Aunt Ruby that the best time to visit me at around the same time Al checks out from work?

By the third day, I wanted to go home immediately.

--

The day before I was discharged from Princeton-Plainsboro, HE arrived.

I was minding my own business, eating the second to the last bland breakfast I'll ever have here, when Dr. House shuffled his way inside. The moment his cane touched the floor of my room, he pulled the blinds, closed them, and made to shut the door, once again shocking the hell out of me again with his speed.

He was also holding something in his left hand; I hadn't noticed it until he finished securing the glass-walled side of the room and turned to face me. Now that I had a clearer view, I saw that it was a backpack.

I rolled my eyes. "I knew I should've taken that offer of a restraining order." I made to send an alarm to the nurse, but the man suddenly raised a large paper bag in front of my face. The wonderful smell of freshly baked croissants invaded my sinuses, involuntarily (I swear!!!) making me close my eyes and breathe in very deeply. When I opened my eyes, Dr. House was holding the bag a few inches away from my face, moving it from side to side.

I was mortified.

"You--are--EVIL!" I whispered dramatically. "Is this how you treat ALL your patients?!"

Dr. House just grinned evilly. "You're not MY patient," he said in a low voice. He shakes the bag again and continued, "I offer a truce; I share some of this, for the use of your TV until the end of the 'General Hospital' two-episode special."

"Let me think about it," I said, pushing the movable table away from me, the bland breakfast ignored. I look up for one second before whipping out the remote control I tucked away on my left. I held it close to my chest, looking at the paper bag. "Let's see the goods first. Then we talk."

Dr. House made a show of rolling his eyes (with matching dramatic head turning) before opening the paper bag and showing me its contents. Satisfied that it did contain freshly baked croissants, I placed the remote on the other side of the bed and grabbed the paper bag. Dr. House snatched the remote off the bed, sat on a nearby chair, and began to flip through the channels until he reached the home of "General Hospital". Dr. House took another paper bag out of the backpack, which contained a sandwich, a large bag of Doritos, and a can of beer.

Into the first thirty minutes of "General Hospital" (and the second of about ten croissants—sneaky little devil!), the glass door slid open. I expected to see Al striding inside, but the brown-haired man wearing the doctor's coat and a mixed expression of shock and outrage proved me wrong.

"Hou--" he began in a loud voice.

Dr. House cut him off with an "Annoying oncologist, meet my insatiable victim."

I snorted. The "introduction" sidetracked Annoying Oncologist for a bit, making him turn to face me and give me a brief, adorable smile. Well, that's not fair—Dr. War's clinic being what it is, it should have its fair share of good-looking MALE doctors. I wonder if it's too early for me to set up my own practice at this hospital...

Annoying Oncologist waved his hand in my direction. "You left Coma Guy for her?!"

I almost choked on my croissant. Dr. House looked at Annoying Oncologist in mock outrage. "And people wonder why you've married _three times_, Wilson," he said derisively. To me, "Careful with this guy--he steals food!"

Annoying Oncologist--or rather, married-three-times Dr. Wilson--rolled his eyes (lots of eye-rolling in this hospital today, eh?). "Right; I steal food and watch cable TV in the room of a comatose patient whenever its Clinic Duty time."

Obviously, Dr. Wilson is giving me an insight into Dr. House's proclivities around the hospital. I wasn't born yesterday. And even though Dr. Wilson sounded angry when he came in, he just sighed and sat at the chair on the other side of the bed.

"Pass the chips?" he asked Dr. House, hopefully. Unfortunately, Dr. House was feigning deafness and focused too closely at the saccharine dialogue playing on the tube. I sigh and offered Dr. Wilson some of my croissant.

"Thanks," he said before biting into the pastry. After swallowing that one bite, he said loudly, "Its nice to be offered the croissants _I bought earlier_ and that _disappeared_ from my office."

Well, THAT made me choke. Good thing about having a couple of bickering doctor pals (Dr. Wilson did seem resigned when he mentioned about the stolen croissants) in the room is that at least one of them knows how to dislodge a piece of food from my windpipe. Specifically, Dr. Wilson did the back-thumping while Dr. House calmly offered me a newly opened can of beer; I gulped it gratefully, relishing the cold stuff that soothed my sore throat. If only it could assuage the return of the pain to my shoulder.

After things settled down, Dr. Wilson gruffly told me that I could have his croissants and that House "is going to have to have someone else write his Vicodin scrip for him from now on."

He left the room in a huff, not bothering to close the sliding door behind him. Dr. House just shrugged and offered me some Doritos. For Dr. Wilson's pilfered croissants, I took a big handful of chips and dumped them on my blanketed lap. We munched quietly for a while, focusing on "General Hospital" for him and focusing on why he wants to watch TV in my room for me.

"Is 'Al' applying for a position at Penn?" he suddenly asked.

I fought off the urge to smile--I knew he was here for a reason.

"I dunno," I said nonchalantly. Actually, that was one of the back-up plans I worked out with Al weeks before, in case Yule at Jefferson didn't work out, but I'm not going to tell him that. "Why do you ask?"

"Uh—she had me sign a recommendation letter for Penn," he replied furtively, almost hesitantly.

I sneakily looked at my dining partner, who had finally pried those baby blues away from his beloved soap opera to bounce his cane on the floor. I gave up on the sneaky looking and shifted around to stare at him, memories of the past several weeks swimming alarmingly inside my head.

I kind of exploded:

"You took all the trouble of sending Al on a fact-finding mission, hacking into her e-mail, faking an appointment at _my_ clinic to try and convince me to convince HER to not resign—and _now_ you just willingly signed a job recommendation letter she typed out?"

I grabbed the edge of my blanket and flicked the wrist of my good arm, sending Doritos crumbs to the floor and all over my snacking buddy.

"What—the moment you convinced her not to resign, you suddenly became _bored_?"

Dr. House stood up from his seat so fast, I almost tumbled off my bed in surprise. He then leaned forward until the tips of our noses almost touched.

"I am not bored," he said softly.

Then he left.

--

The following day, even though she knew I would be pestering her, Al helped me to prepare leaving the hospital. She packed the essentials she brought to the hospital on Day One and helped me into the wheelchair. I didn't say anything at all during the pack-up; I had a nagging suspicion that she'd leave me on the curb in front of my apartment if I started in on her. However, after leaving me in the dark for a week, I am not making it easy for her to sit me in the wheelchair.

The silence reigned as she pushed me down the end of the hall to the elevators. I took this moment of silence to gaze at all the transparent hospital rooms. What kind of hospital has glass walls? I ask you…

Finally, we reached the other side of the hospital lobby. I carefully, slowly look up at Al and broke the mutual silence: "Are you going to push me all the way home?"

Al looks down at me, with a straight face, and replied, "Why not? I need the exercise."

I snorted—Al called a cab earlier—and went down to business. "So—I hear you got _old man_ House to sign a recommendation letter to Penn…" Then I made a twirly hand gesture with my good hand. "Come on, Al, share! Haven't you heard? Share and share alike…"

It was working; Al's lips were twitching. Ah yes—my cajoling powers are still thriving! She can't resist my cutesy "I'm hurt that you won't share" tone of voice—the fact that I'm also sitting in a wheelchair kind of helped complete the "pity me" look.

Finally, Al looks behind her, then she checked the surrounding area. Satisfied that the CIA and FBI weren't in the vicinity, she leaned down, cupped a hand over my ear, and whispered the words that finally verified my suspicions.

"There was tongue."

I risked whiplash when I jerked my head away from her fast and hissed, "No!"

Al smiled—a truly brilliant smile that lowered my eyesight points to nil. "I initiated the kiss; he established the tongue!"

"He didn't!" I cried, scandalized. Then, with a perfectly reasonable scientific curiosity, "Was it good?"

The 100-megawatt smile increased in incandescence. "Oh, _yeah_."

"Tell me more! Don't you dare go all secretive on me…!"

--

So, that's what happened.

I was right about quitting as her "mentor". Allison Cameron didn't need any more pep talks from me since she did the tongue-locker with her boss. We do occasionally meet at the hexagonal pizzeria for more girl-talk and doctor-patient confidentiality gossip—and updates on her life.

According to Al, Dr. House became a bit flirtier with her. He keeps trying to get her alone at different parts of the hospital, shooting R-rated quips at her every chance he gets. Sometimes, Al says, she launches a counter-quip; other times, she shrugs it off. One time, she surprised him again by impulsively giving him a quick one on the kisser before running out the door to do some test.

"So," I ask her, as I help her remove the giant curlers out of her hair. "Now what's going to happen? Still going to play horny cat and nympho mouse with him?"

"I'm—not sure." Al shrugs. She turns around and views herself at the full-length mirror in my room.

There's a rap of wood on wood and a muffled, "Ready, Cameron?"

I snort. "Dr. Sunshine has arrived."

Al grins. "Hope this date ends in play."

I just cross my fingers as she sauntered out of the room.

_Fin---for real this time!_


End file.
